Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Outside Germaine’s door she stood, wondering what she ought to do. The sobbing continued softly, as though the hidden weeper were afraid of being overheard. It had a piteous sound which went to the girl’s heart and at the same time vaguely alarmed her. Where was Jeanne? Then she noticed that the dressing-room door was ajar. Cautiously she pushed it open and stole a glance inside.

The room was empty, the cover of the couch-bed smoothly drawn up. So much she could make out in the dimness, and drew her conclusions accordingly. Jeanne had gone out--perhaps to meet Blom. For once the invalid was left unguarded.

Not without a tremor of nervousness, she took her courage in both hands and went into Mme. Bender’s room.

But where was the occupant? The sobs had ceased. Two candles against the wall burned with a wavering light, casting black shadows across the disarranged but empty bed. The air was hot and stuffy.

All at once a movement caught her eye, and above the edge of the armchair showed a pallid face, tear-streaked, hair in disorder, eyes gazing fixedly.

“Germaine!” whispered the girl in consternation, mystified at the sight.

Then she realized that Mme. Bender was crouched on the floor before the crucifix, in an attitude of prayer.

It was a long second before she saw recognition come into the frightened eyes and the lips move stiffly, whispering her name.

“It’s you--it’s you--it’s you…” murmured the invalid over and over, clutching the bed-curtain with a shaking hand. “At first I thought…”

“But of course it’s me,” said Catherine soothingly. “I heard you and came to see what was wrong.”

She watched anxiously for any sign of recoil, but could detect none. Still puzzled, but with a feeling of relief, she put her arm about the older woman’s shoulders protectingly.

“But you will catch cold, dear. You must let me get you into bed again,” and she reached for the white _peignoir_ lying on the chair and wrapped it round the unresisting frame.

“No, no, I am not cold. It is very hot in here--too hot. I could not sleep,” whispered Mme. Bender vaguely, her eyes fixed like those of a somnambulist. “Sometimes the sedative does not work. I think it is because I have taken it so often.”

She allowed herself to be led back to bed, and with complete docility let Catherine arrange the pillows and remove the stifling eiderdown. The window was closed, there was not a breath of fresh air. No wonder the poor creature could not rest.

“But where is Jeanne?” the girl could not help asking, as she lowered the upper sash a little and poured some water into a glass which she held to the patient’s dry lips.

Germaine regarded her as though in a dream.

“Jeanne? I don’t know… she went out, I think, an hour, two hours ago. Ah,” she added quickly, “you must not tell her I was awake! It will only distress her. Poor Jeanne--she does so much for me, and I am so selfish. No one in the world cares for me as she does. I know that only too well,” she muttered with curious insistence.

Catherine did not oppose her. She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the trembling hand which she was glad to notice did not withdraw from her clasp. Then, seeing that the candles, still alight, were only a few inches removed from the draperies of the bed, she got up and extinguished them. The acrid smoke from the burning wicks filled her nostrils.

“Why did you light the candles, dear?” she asked, as she turned on the lamp. “You know, I don’t think it is quite safe to do that.”

The grey eyes avoided hers with a look of guilt.

“I was praying,” whispered the invalid childishly. “I was so unhappy, lying here… I couldn’t bear it any longer. I thought if I lit the candles and prayed I might get some relief from the pain here,”--and she touched her heart, while a spasm of suffering crossed her features.

“But why are you unhappy, Germaine? Won’t you try to tell me?” begged the girl, afraid to speak the words.

“Because--because I am so alone. Who would not feel as I do, with no one to care for me except Jeanne? Ah--if you knew! I am lonely, I am desolate--I have not a single friend. I would be happier if I were so poor that I had not a sou to call my own, for then I should perhaps have someone to love me!”

It was the old story. Jeanne had distilled the poisonous suggestion into the poor credulous mind until there was no removing it. It was almost unbelievably cruel.

“Germaine,” said Catherine firmly yet with an attempt at lightness, “all that is sheer nonsense. Listen to me, dear. Every one has friends--rich people as well as poor ones. It is Jeanne who has made you think this absurd thing--and is it possible you don’t realize why?”

The wan face expressed nothing but bewilderment.

“Jeanne? I don’t understand. Why should she?”

“Simply because she is jealous. She hates the thought of any other person sharing your affection. It has been plain to me from the beginning. I don’t blame her, but it is so. She is jealous of anyone who might come between you and her. Can’t you see that?”

She spoke with strong conviction, determined to drive home something she did not herself wholly believe any longer. She saw a light of wonderment come into her cousin’s eyes.

“But can this possibly be true?” faltered the poor woman in amazement.

“I’m sure of it. Think for a moment. Who are your friends? Tell me their names.”

The strained gaze wavered.

“Not many,” muttered the invalid after a moment. “Some are dead. There was, of course, Madeleine de Bréart…”

“The Comtesse de Bréart is in Africa, with her husband. She has been gone for many months. Surely you know that.”

But it was plain that Germaine did not know.

“A number of people have called to inquire about you, but you were not considered well enough to see them. They left cards and sometimes flowers. There was the Baronne de Grèves and Madame Strakosch.” She mentioned the names at random, shamelessly, bent only upon uprooting the fixed idea which was causing so much mischief.

Incredulous joy flamed up in the starved eyes.

“They came? You mean this? And I never knew! Or if I did I have forgotten it,” she added, pushing her hair off her forehead with a confused gesture.

“Of course! You see?” cried the young girl triumphantly. “Now you must never get such ideas into your head again.” She waited a moment, then, growing bolder, continued: “And then there is Hermione. You forget her. She cares for you very deeply, more, perhaps, than anyone.”

A shadow hovered over the sensitive face.

“Lili… do you think she does?”

“I swear it. For that matter, how is it possible you can doubt her devotion, after all these years, with nothing to go upon except the angry words of a servant?”

As she said this she shook inwardly, afraid that she had gone too far. However, the abashed expression on her companion’s features assured her she was right to take a firm line.

“You must not reproach me,” murmured the Frenchwoman, fidgeting. “She--she did urge me to make my will, you know.”

“And why not?” interrupted Catherine quickly. “She meant no harm. Everyone makes a will. Even I, with my tiny bit of property, made my will soon after my father died. It is the only sensible thing to do.” Here she paused to allow the common sense of this to sink into Germaine’s mind. “You cannot realize how hurt Hermione is when you refuse to see her. To be shut out like this by the one friend of her girlhood--surely you must know how terribly it has wounded her feelings. You really owe her an apology!”

“But--but----”

It was easy to read the meaning of Mme. Bender’s embarrassed hesitation. Half-convinced now that she had made a mistake, the poor woman was in terror of displeasing Jeanne by admitting it. She was far too weak to make any sort of stand by herself.

“Never mind that now,” said Catherine gently. “I don’t say this to upset you, only to make you understand things better. As for making your will, it is a matter only you can decide. No one wants to bother you about it. All we think of--Jeanne, Hermione, I--is to get you well again.”

The shaking hand picked at the sheet mechanically.

“I ought to do it--I know I ought,” whispered Mme. Bender indistinctly, as if arguing with herself. “Only feeling as I do about myself I dare not. My memory… Ah, what was that?” She started, trembling afresh. “Did you hear a noise?”

Listening, Catherine caught the sound of a door closing. It was Jeanne come back. Simultaneously the invalid’s eyes dilated with nervous dread.

“Go--go!” she urged, pushing the girl away with both hands. “She must not find you here. Quick, I beg of you! I shall pretend to be asleep.”

Catherine sprang up, put out the lamp, and slipped into the passage, shutting the door behind her. She was not a moment too soon, for barely had she time to step inside the neighbouring bathroom when she heard the maid’s brisk steps approach and enter the room she had just quitted. She waited till all was silent, then made her way back in the darkness to her own side of the apartment.

The past quarter of an hour had cheered her enormously, proving as it had how amenable Germaine was to the influence of any vigorous mind. How readily she had responded to the suggestion of Jeanne’s jealousy! A very little more and all that unhappy distrust in her soul could be melted away. Wonders might be achieved if only one had a free hand.

She took off her hat and began to unfasten the cuffs of her frock. Then, glancing down, she saw that the lilies of the valley which had been pinned into the front were gone. A little pang shot through her. Where could she have dropped them? They had been in place a little while ago, for she recalled their fragrance during the moments when she had leaned against the post at the top of the stairs. That meant they had fallen off either in the passage or in Germaine’s room.

Suddenly oppressed, she retraced her steps cautiously all the way to the distant bedroom, feeling the carpet every inch of the way. No, the flowers were not there. She had certainly lost them in her cousin’s room, where they would remain till the maid discovered them, silent evidence of her presence there.

Would the incident lead to further trouble? It had been only too plain just now that Germaine was afraid of what Jeanne would say if she knew. Well, the damage was done now, there was no help for it. One must simply hope for the best.

In bed at last, with weary body but alert mind, she saw the day’s events pass before her in a series of vivid pictures. The brilliant restaurant of Ledoyen, the April countryside, moonlight on the dark quais, the lurid interior of Tattenham Corner…

Those round staring eyes of the Montmartre grisette! What a note of fascinated loathing there had been in the piping voice when it described the huge spider, watchful in its web! Almost as though the girl herself were the hapless fly entangled in those paralysing meshes.… Geoffrey was right, all the same. One must not let one’s fancy be governed by such absurdities!

Candles… too close to Mme. Bender’s bed. They were dangerous. One flicker of a draught, and the draperies might be set on fire. All that must be changed. Never mind, to-night’s conversation was a distinct step forward. A little more scheming, reasonable luck, and Jeanne with her bad influence and slack ways would be gone forever.…

Meanwhile a warm thought flooded her consciousness. Geoffrey loved her, wanted her! Just now it mattered little what her own feelings were. Enough that she had been held in strong arms and kissed as all her life she had longed to be kissed…

She fell asleep, the Albeniz Tango pulsing rhythmically in her inner ear. Peace, oblivion, and not one disturbing hint of what the following day was to bring forth.…